Becoming Lady
by Progenitus
Summary: The life of Alanna, had she been raised royalty in another country, and met George under different circumstances. Her journey as she tried to break away from the conventional boundaries of ladyship was not very easy. [AU, AG. The prologue's a bit funny, but the rest of the story is in normal prose.]
1. Prologue: What the Moon Saw

**Becoming Lady**

Disclaimed.

Due to constructive criticism, this story is being revamped with better characterization. Always better the second time around, right? (Er, hopefully, at least.)

* * *

**Prologue: What the Moon Saw**

The night was Starless.

The shrill cry of an infant pierced through the fog-like density, shattering the mystical airs into tiny molecules of glittering drops unseen to the mortal eyes.

The crescent Moon hung pale and distressed in the midnight air, too feeble to move.

The Moon could only see so much death, before its veil of glow withered over the lands.

Beside the cooper-headed infant with shocking amethyst eyes stood a young Boy of no more than ten cool, dank summers.

(This was his tenth.)

He was composed for the strange situation that he was in.

_What situation_, the Stars asked behind the wispy clouds that drifted along the unlit horizon, _what situation_, for they could not see.

The Moon made no answer, frozen into numbness by the shock of sudden death that should not have happened.

"What do you intend to do with it?" The Boy asked.

His words were like daggers in the cool, silent air.

(So were his eyes.)

The Wind ruffled his short brown hair, and the short spikes danced with the swift bitter movements of the air.

Here was a Boy who was used to the affections of the Wind.

There was also a Man too, in this scene, in the night.

The Man was much older, with an ugly scar on his face that looked like a deep gorge on his face in the dim moonlight, and his presence was symbolic, because he was old and the other was young; he was ugly and the other was a Boy and all Boys were beautiful; he was cruel and the Boy was still learning to be cruel.

"The girlie paid good money for this babe to never be found again, and we'll make sure of tha', won't we, Georgy," said the Old Man.

(He liked rhetorical questions: they made him feel clever, and being clever meant a lot of things in the world they lived in.)

"Right," the Boy replied casually—enough so that the Old Man would twitch and be annoyed and yet reveal his plans all the same.

It was a game that they played, and the Boy was winning, because he was patient.

(Patience was just one of his many virtues.)

"Ya don't got no bit of curiosity in ya, lad."

(How predicable; the game was getting boring, so perhaps he should choose a new game.)

"We'll have to lure the king what's-his-name of Maren to here," the Old Man went on, "Then we'd see how a childless king does with an orphan newborn."

(Perhaps cards.)

The Old Man cackled. "Who'd look for a lost heir to some land in Tortall in the prince of Maren?"

(Or mutiny.)

The Boy nodded dutifully, and did not point out that this babe was a girl, not the boy that the woman paid for them to kidnap.

(Knowing when to be silent was another one of his virtues.)

The kingdom of thieves was not a monarchy, and its Kings were elected by the people—and the people only elected the strong; there were many ways in which it was poetically just that this Old-Man-Old-King of the thieves could toy with the king of Maren, and probably the king of Tortall came in somewhere too.

The Boy was still young, and he had many journeys up-hill yet to take, one of the lessons being to pay attention to politics of the lesser kings.

(The lesser kings did not deserve capitalization.)

The Boy was still young, so he had his youth to grow into the New King.

(Surely by his multitude of virtues.)

A cloud covered the frail spark of the Moon, and then passed on quickly.

When the Moon recast her rays on the land, all that remained was a copper-headed babe and a no-longer-childless king.

* * *

Author's Note: There, I got all the [enter]s out of my system. The main body of the story will be in normal prose, after the prologue.


	2. Copper Airs

**Chapter 1**

**Copper Airs**

_Tell me, were you the girl I met by chance  
the ideal dream I have vainly sought?  
A passer-by with gentle eyes, were you the friend  
who brought happiness to a lonely poet,_

* * *

The girl's amethyst eyes shot wide open, still holding a babyish largeness on her face of sixteen.

It was a bitter and dark morning: the sun wasn't up yet; the sky behind the mountains carried a few pieces of heavily layered cloud, their hazy edges dyed rosy in the glow of sunrise.

She had dreamed her usual dream, but it was entirely unremarkable if one dismissed the way it always evaded her, leaving her only a fragment to hold delicately, a remnant from that enchanted moment between waking and sleeping. A pair of cool hands, large and spanning the entire length of her stomach, much too large to be human, softly but not gently holding her. The friction from the new calluses hurt her, but the pain was oddly soothing in a way. A pair of hands that held her from the dawn of her memory.

She had gotten used to it.

She had gotten used to a lot of things, mind you, from etiquette lessons—so that she might bargain with her wide, baby eyes for longer equestrian lessons—to silk weaving—so that she might one day send ciphers in silk, carried by stealth pigeons, she daydreamed—to even memorizing the language of fans—only so that she would not send unintended declarations of love to potential suitors to the crown on her head.

Princess Alanna Amethys Fraxinella of Maren discovered at a young age that by pretending that her royal lessons were espionage lessons, she was able to meet the expectations of her father King Guelder, and thus not bring about any additional stress to his frail heart. At her core, Alanna was a considerate child, who fought against her natural inclinations for the mud and swords, so that her father would live a long and happy life; on her morose days, she would figure herself a martyr, sacrificing her own happiness for the health of her father's. It seemed fit, somehow, for everything she ever had was bestowed by him.

Alanna had no misconception about this bestowment, for she was not of his blood.

King Guelder of Maren was barren. That was a secret that the entire kingdom knew, from the least social nobleman to the furthest peasant of the mountains, from the wandering sailor over the oceans to the traveling bard in remote taverns.

The Princess was acquired through methods less well known, but nevertheless, her legitimacy was never needed because who else was the king going to leave his kingdom to?

Bit melodramatic for early morning though, so Alanna yawned and got up.

The dawn had yet to wrap up its song of rapture, and outside the mountains still blazed maroon, the reddening light falling through her windows and making the scroll on her bedside table burn.

It was half splayed out, her last read before falling asleep, weighed down by a porcelain figurine.

Not the best way to start a morning either. It was a report about sighting of one George Cooper, King of Thieves and Master of the Court of the Rogue of Tortall. It was hardly a pressing matter, as these sightings were plentiful and frequently false. Still, the King needed to know and investigate all of these, if only a polite diplomatic gesture to King of Tortall, a sort of nod to their judicial claims. It found, George Cooper would be arrested and returned to Tortall, no longer their headache.

Alanna wasn't in a position to know this, but she had a bad habit of accosting official scrolls before returning them to her father's chamber before he woke up. She suspected that he knew and indulged her, as he indulged many bad habits of hers, but the rule was don't-ask-don't-tell.

One or two squires would be sent to look for him then. The best behaving ones, as a sort of vacation.

Alanna thought that she should recommend Malcolm, who occasionally showed her sword tricks at her command. How did the plebian term go? Scratch backs? Never mind, it was inappropriate for a princess to be so colloquial in any case.

Malcolm would jump at the chance to capture Cooper too—they all knew that he was a cold-blooded, honor-less savage, and Malcolm always harbored fantasies of glory and battle.

That was decided then; just had to let the King reach the decision himself. Alanna knew exactly how to do that as she frowned at her maid who once again tried to tighten her corset beyond decency.

Half of a fiery disk emerged from the azure sky, slowly rising and showing its massive golden self, bright fires lit the lands. The scarlet light gradually turned bright white, as fresh as virgin snow, and the day began.

**-.-.-.-**

Being the seventeen years royalty she was, Alanna quickly forgot about politics after tea hour.

Afternoon tea had been a nasty affair.

The second Duke's son had sent another knight with yet another artistic portrait to ask her hand in marriage. It was getting harder and harder to make baby eyes at the King, now that she was growing out of her baby eyes.

Most ladies have married and are raising kids at her age, especially ones that were noble or had big dowries. Not she though, not the pearl of the king, who blessed her with a station so noble and a dowry so large that half the kingdom's young men wished to woo her. Marrying her would have been worth a few lifetimes' worth of working for most people.

Yet still she managed to remain unattached at the unsuitable age of seventeen.

The problem, of course, was with her.

She was not an ugly child; rather, she grew up to be prettier than expected.

Of course, her looks were never part of the game anyway—even if she had been decidedly hideous, none of the artists employed to draw her portrait would dare to put down an ugly face, and none of her suitors would have minded. Beauty was easily attained, but her station and dowry was not.

Wasn't she a fetching prize then?

The sun was making its slow crawl towards the far horizon. Alanna allowed herself to sulk at dusk every day—it didn't help her situation, but it certainly got a bit of venom out of her words.

A lady's words were never sharp, but Alanna made sure of that.

She sat on the ash wood bench in front of the fountain in the garden that she called her own.

(No one ever argued with her claim over this land.)

Lilac bushes surrounded the tiny space, blocking out all views of the other parts of the garden except for a thin opening passing as a gate. Tall willow trees hung their branches over the sky above, creating a curtain for her to draw behind. The wooden bench was a swing in some way, as it moved about a little, though not far—just enough for a soothing rhythm like a rocking cradle. A flowing fountain bubbled in front of her, and the stems of irises, lilies, roses, and hollyhocks swayed with the slow flow of the water.

She rocked peacefully back and forth in her little square and blocked all thoughts away.

It was her time alone.

She sat as a monument to her suffering, until the sun slowly crept down pass the horizon, rays disappearing each second.

Suddenly, she felt her upper arm sting. A warm gushing followed, and she tasted in the air a coppery tone much like her hair. She flung open her eyes and saw a figure in the bushes, making the purple and green branches whisper.

* * *

Author's Note: I decided that it's easier to tell a story in the more conventional storytelling manner.

If only a story can have nothing happening, and just pages and pages of description of the _sun_! Then again, I can't quite write _The Waves_, can I?


	3. Fear of One's Nurse

**Chapter 2**

**Fear of One's Nurse**

_And did you shine upon my vacant heart  
like the native sky on an exiled spirit?_

* * *

Alanna glanced at her wound, wincing a bit when she saw blood. It was a long wound, yet shallow, and presented no threat. The only harm was that it hurt—not the painful gushing of the blood that was easy to endure (though dangerous), but the dumb aching that refused to be ignored.

Shoving that thought away forcefully, she drew out her dagger, the one that she tied to her calf underneath all those layers of heavy silk and satin. It was a lady's dagger—the only kind she could afford to be found with, a cleverly phrased misgiving about assassination attempts—but it was honed to killing point. When she was young enough, she even tried it on a chiffon dress. The result was a bad tongue-lashing from her nurse. She suspected that if she was not the princess, the fearsome woman might have flogged her.

But returning to the present, she focused on the now stilled lilac bushes. The purple bushes gave off an intense fragrance that lulled one to sweet thoughts, of lovers and lovers-to-be, of moonlit romance and white-mane horses, of blossoming maidens and fairies who plucked maidens.

Alanna shook her head. She needed to be completely focused to face the intruder.

Then the bushes murmured again, and revealed a man.

He was still half veiled by the bushes, but he looked like he was in his late twenties, with green-hazel eyes that glinted with a mischievous awareness, even in the presence of a dagger. He was tall—very tall—and Alanna judged that if she was up on her feet he would have still loomed over her. Sinewy and broad shouldered, he moved through his garments with a grace born from practice and much moving about. His hair was a nondescript brown though, cut short in the commoner fashion. A smile hung off his lips: a silent apology, in an impish, unapologetic sort of way.

She had seen his sort in court: charming, though not conventionally handsome, and relied on their charm to ease through life, welding trickery into arrows with their charm. His sort never saw a day's hard work in their lives, because others gave them what they wanted so easily.

She scoffed, more at all the posh charmers that she had met than the man before her, but he took in her scoff with amusement.

What really caught her eyes though, were his hands—large hands that seemed able to encompass the world, yet nimble enough to carve a block of wood into a delicate flower.

Hands so like those that encompassed her, in her dream.

Alanna almost blushed, remember the touch on her bare stomach, and then cursed herself a fool in every language she was forced to learn.

This man (large hands or not) might be an assassin, or a spy—or even worse, a suitor.

"Show yourself fully," she commanded, and waited for him to dash forward and attack or backwards and escape.

To her surprise, he sauntered slowly and did show himself fully. Something on her face must have tipped him off, because he flashed her a smile, a devastating smile that promised anything and everything.

"Sorry 'bout tha', princess," he said in an accented tongue, very different from his charming demeanor, but it was a pleasant and unfamiliar accent. Alanna had heard it once or twice before, but she couldn't recall where or when. What she could tell though, was that it was not from the Kingdom of Maren, and definitely not posh.

"Tha' was meant for me, not you," he continued, gesturing vaguely to the arrow. "Dealt with 'im already, though, so don't worry. Here, let me see the wound, I can heal it."

He reached out a hand but stopped as Alanna raised the dagger to meet his hand.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his face not flickering at all. "My Ma can heal that properly, bein' a Healer, but lass, unless you're one yourself, I suggest tha' you let me take a look—I've got herbs with me." He paused, and then arched a brow, "Why you _are_ a healer after all. Well, so much for tha'. No need to go worryin' myself then."

"Name yourself," she snarled out, "And state what business you have here, upon my grounds?" Alanna did not like how he could tell so much about her while she could not find out anything about him. She took another look at him, mind whirling quickly. His build and movements were that of an assassin's, but assassins did not waste time in banter. He could just be a simple thief, but simple thieves did not get into the Royal Gardens so nonchalantly. His accent definitely put him with the seedier Common people, and not the even seedier nobilities, but he carried herbs? What, did he expect arrows to be shot at him frequently?

Perhaps a Healer who healed for the wrong person? She felt much more at ease now that she found a suitable explanation. If he _was_ a Healer, it was perfectly alright to be charmed by him—which she was, much as she didn't want to admit.

He allowed her to study him, and once she was satisfied, he smiled more broadly and bowed, an untrained bow smoothed out by muscular grace. "George Cooper at your service, princess."

There were so many things that rung familiar with this man, his name included, and it frustrated Alanna to no end that she just simply couldn't put her finger on it. All these loose bits of information were tugging on the back of her mind, and refused to let her focus on the present.

"What brings you to here?" She didn't ask about how he got here—it hardly mattered anyway. To a man who was resourceful enough to break in the first time, even if she mended the security hole, he would find another way in. No, she did not ask that of him, and hoped that he would see it as an olive branch of '_Don't harm me and no harm shall come upon you_'.

The subtlety was not lost upon the man. He grinned and said, "Had a walk. I mean absolutely no harm to you, 'course, or your Pa the king."

Alanna somehow sensed that when he said 'king' it was not capitalized, but she wasn't a sticker to rules and respect anyway. It was nice to let those things slip for a while. "Alright then, I'll settle with that."

"Wha' brings a princess out in the garden though?"

"Many things," she said, "Mostly a fear of my nurse."

He laughed, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds that she had ever heard.

_Oh Alanna_, she thought, _you're a bit too old for crushes_.

She wasn't. Seventeen was a mightily good age for crushing, but she was a princess so it was different for her. The last time she had a crush was when she was nine, and the fair-headed squire of Knight Percy had brought her a branch of lilacs and said that they reminded him of her eyes. She blushed and that was when she understood what blushing meant. That was also the first and last time she put on a gown willingly, and almost fretted about the pearls on her slippers. A week later she had found him kissing her chambermaid Blanche in the gardens. She found out later that he had given her the flowers in momentary pity of the small child confined to the caged castle, and not as—well, she wasn't sure what she had read into it, but it had been romantic and heart-quickening.

There was no political scandal, nor did he have any ulterior motive, but that just made it worse.

She allowed herself no more crushing after that, not when she understood how it made her blind, and how the next time it very might well be part of some political game.

Politics.

_George Cooper_. The Rogue.

_Oh_, she thought. But it was such a common name, could it be a mere coincidence? After all, if he _was_ the Rogue, would she not already be dead?

And since she wasn't, since she had extended her olive branch and he had taken it, did it matter if he might be?

Alanna thought that a 'don't ask don't tell' policy might be good here, and instead let herself smile when he said, "I thought it would take a dragon to scare you, princess, and fire-breathin' at the very least."

"You have no idea, she _is_ fire-breathing."

He laughed again, and Alanna decided that yes, 'don't ask don't tell' was very good here.

"Wha' sort of madness runs in your waters here in Maren? Our nobility don't have half a drop of humor in 'em!"

"You have seen other nobility?" she asked before thinking, and once she realized it, she silently pleaded, _Don't tell me, don't tell me, please don't tell me_.

"I ah, have an _understandin'_ with some of 'em, in my country," was all he gave her, and threw a disarming grin at her again. "But I'd rather have you talk; I like how you talk."

So she told him about how bored she was with learning embroidery, how awful she was at singing despite all the vocal lessons, and how she swore Madam Pouffait made up new etiquette rules just to avenge that one time she slipped salt into her tea.

He in turn showed her a few tricks she could do with a small dagger, described the most outlandish places that she had never been to, told her how having nothing to do while sailing on the sea was by far more boring than embroidery, and in fact did carve a rose for her out of a block of wood.

Alanna let the symbolism slide for now. She could not get into that.

But mostly, laughter rippled through the heavily perfumed air, like two birds in flight, circling each other, flying away and always coming back. Laughter itself was scarce, though no unheard on the Royal Grounds, but ringing from the princess's gardens was definitely strange. The servants avoided the place, fearing that their lady had at long last lost her mind.

Soon, the world dimmed as the last rays of the sun were outlined a band of clouds near the horizon with fire. The new moon rose, impatient with the sun's slow descent, an alabaster crescent in an indigo sky.

Night was upon the land.

A bell chimed somewhere, marring the peaceful atmosphere.

The copper-haired princess gasped, and snapped her head up. Stars spiked the sky, and the sun had already fallen behind the mountains in the distance.

"I must go!" she cried out, her own voice treacherous and trembling slightly. It was the last thing she wanted, to spread out her emotions out. "If I do not hurry back to my wing to change, I shall be late for dinner!"

George nodded in solemn understanding. "Go on, I don't want you to get in trouble with your nurse, after all."

Alanna made a face at him (Mother Goddess, she hadn't made a face in so long!) and ran.

However, she halted to look back her shoulder, and found that he was following her with his eyes. To her embarrassment, she couldn't stop herself from calling out, "You _shall_ return tomorrow, shan't you?"

He returned her with a wicked grin and, "Now why would I go about spoilin' a good mystery, princess?"

* * *

Author's Note: It's been a while, so if any of the accent is out of place/wrong, please let me know!

And please review, it means the world to me!


	4. Let No Bird Sing

**Chapter 3**

**Let No Bird Sing**

_Your shy sadness, so like my own,  
loves to watch the sun set over the sea!  
Your delight is awakened before its immensity,  
and the evenings spent with your lovely soul are dear to me._

* * *

Late night.

Everything was silent, save for the occasional snap of branches beneath a flickering fire. The moon, the stars, the world was peacefully quiet, grateful for the darkness, grateful for the night, grateful for a time of rest before a new dawn broke. Birds perched high on their branches, other animals snuggled in their home, even the fretful insects decided to take a night off.

Alanna sat on her bench, trying to get warm.

It was long pass the time when he usually came.

He didn't show up before supper, as he always did, and there was no trace of him when she returned, dashing away from dinner like a madwoman.

Staring into the glowing flames, Alanna felt oddly vacant; like she lost a precious part of her that she could not afford to lose. She even felt cheated on, of being discarded carelessly.

Of course there was no logic to her sense of betrayal, she tried reasoning with herself. He never promised her anything, never gave word of a return. He just showed up, and whenever she had asked of a repeat performance, he just gave a non-answer about the values of mystery and surprise.

He _had_ repeated his performance of magically appearing inside the castle—inside her cage—but she knew better than to fall back to habits and expectations. George Cooper was a free man, and most certainly could go wherever he pleased, whenever he felt like it—without telling her. He had no obligation to report to her. In fact, she was more or less certain that he was from the Kingdom of Tortall, and was _most_ certain that his loyalties did not lie with the Maren family.

Alanna wondered briefly if she could order his capture so he wouldn't be quite so free anymore.

Such selfish thoughts rarely occurred to her, but she just wanted to be goddamn selfish for once. It wasn't like she had much to look forward to, the rest of her life stretching out predictably and painfully before her.

These talks with the thief-Rogue-man-mystery were the reason she smiled more, and even her nurse praised her newfound peaceful embroidering. She learned far more about swords and battles from him than she could pick from reading of books that she had no business of reading. She learned more about the world that she was in, places that she had never seen, and it made her a better person, did it not? She learned more about herself even, the jokes that she laughed at and the things that she found interesting—she only knew what she _didn't_ find interesting before. She was so much better at pretending to be a lady when she had this to escape to every night.

Surely he knew that—knew how much it meant to her? How could he just cast her off like that! Her royal temper flared, and she was indignant at how he defied her. Despite how she fought against her birth and education, she was a princess and there were things that seeped into her personality—like a dormant sense that everybody should obey, an expectation of things going her way.

But she knew what it was like to be chained, didn't she? She of all people knew the value of freedom, so she chided herself gently for trying to take away his freedom, if only mentally and wistfully.

Today of all days, though, was when she needed his listening ear the most.

She had just received the message that she was to marry King Jonathan the Fourth of Conte.

Prior to this, she had always known in the back of her mind that someday she was to be married. But to have a faint knowledge and to be informed of a specific date were two matters entirely.

The indulgent affections of King Maren had protected her from some of the necessities of a lady's life, including fending off suitors for seventeen years. She had even entertained the thought of immunity to marriage, putting it off indefinitely in the name of caring for the King, who seemed to have no end in his affections for her.

But she supposed even the fondness of a king expired, and so she was promised to be wed.

It was a good marriage, though, to be fair to her Father. Jonathan was known to be both handsome and intelligent, and kind occasionally, especially to his knights. The King of Tortall trained his son well, her Father had told her, and she held her head down.

A good marriage for a princess, she knew, but she was still _angry_, oh so angry, at her Father—who _sold her off_—at Jonathan—whom she had never seen but _why agree_—at George—for he _should have been there for her_.

She caught the horns of her anger and tucked it in again, neatly, with practice.

The end of the world was the day after tomorrow, after her eighteenth birthday and the final one she would have on the soil of Maren.

She wanted—oh what did she want? To have a final night, free of a gilt cage? To see George the Commoner, who would by no means would be able to stop this? To live forever in this night and feel the lilac waves wash her with the fresh, crisp air of her homeland?

At the very least she knew what she _didn't_ want; she did not want to become a pet, to be caged behind grand yet inescapable bars, to play puppet in splendid yet constricting dresses, to lead a life that though lavish, was false.

She didn't want to leave and didn't want _marriage_. She just wasn't ready for it.

And no one could be ready if one didn't want to be.

Where was he? _Where was he_?

Her angry thoughts upset the peace of the night, and she could almost feel the bushes whispering to her to turn back and forget any commoners lurking in the lilac seas.

Just then, the night wind brought a series of small noises, the sounds of footsteps muffled by leaves and grass.

Once she heard the familiar sound, her eyes lit up, and the night seemed beautiful again. Even the small fire seemed brighter, warmer. Stars twinkled high above—Alanna had hardly noticed that they were there. The starlight cast its soft light into the night, paving the way for the clear, frigid moonlight.

Soon enough, George walked out of the lilac bushes again. The moonlight made him seem even taller. Alanna looked at him, and her mind settled down, like a lost bird finding its flock again.

"George..." she whispered out, more of a chant than a greeting.

He didn't answer immediately, but simply stayed under the tree, letting the moonlight wash him.

Something was wrong, Alanna knew, and the warmth that just filled her heart bled out again. "George?"

"Lass," he stopped, scratched his head, and almost looked apologetic—a real apology this time.

_No, no_, she thought, _don't apologize; don't give yourself something to apologize for_. Unfortunately, her silent request did not make a difference.

"My business here has ended," he said slowly, "I've got to go."

"Go? Now?" she croaked out.

"It had to happen, sooner or later," he seemed tired, "You knew it was coming."

It was like somebody punched her in the guts. Or at least that's what she imagined getting punched felt.

"I'm needed elsewhere," he gave a feeble explanation at the stony look on her face.

_You're needed here_, she thought, but her pride prevented her from saying that.

"I'll come by again when things settle down. I'll visit again."

Her anger returned, white hot and overwhelming. What did he take her for, a puppy who eagerly awaited his arrival? A housewife whose entire universe revolved around him?

It hit closer to home than she would have liked, and so of course she was angry.

What did he think: that she would be here forever, waiting?

Let him _go_ then.

Let him go, and when he returned one day, he would not find her here. Let him go and let him have his regret in the future, for then he would understand that this was goodbye, the final, absolute end. No more would he hear about fire-breathing nurses, and no more would he have a princess to relax his tense shoulder with. No more complete safety in a secret lilac garden, and no more storytelling about his grand adventures.

Although a man like him undoubtedly had many female ears to listen to his adventures.

Somehow that thought out of all of them fueled her anger the most.

So she coldly said, "Of course. You are free to leave at any and all times." And she turned around and walked back, dignified: it was how a princess walked.

She didn't know if he watched her leave, and if he whispered anything, the wind did not carry the secret words to her.

The night was still fierce, the moonlight still frosty, the world still silent.

It was like they had never met.

* * *

Author's Note: Oh dear, angry Alanna has never been very good for the universe, has it?


	5. The Best of All Possible Worlds

**Chapter 4**

**The Best of All Possible Worlds**

_A mysterious and gentle sympathy  
already binds me to you like a living bond;  
My soul trembles with overpowering love,  
And my heart cherishes you, knowing you hardly at all.  
_**—**Charles Jean Grandmougin, _Rencontre_

* * *

The wedding was talked about across the four lands in excited murmurs and graceful songs.

They said that the bride had fine red hair—her tresses long and flowing and glinting like metal under the sunlight. She rode into Tortall on top of a tame, white mare and with a mile of dowry behind her. They said that her eyes were large, bright, piercing even through the lace veil that she wore. The color was violet, and if some called that unnatural, then they were hushed quickly and effectively. They said that she did not smile once in the voyage of a thousand miles.

She would smile, they said, once she saw their Prince Jonathan, for ever had a girl not smiled at his face.

Whether or not that was true, the people did not know; but what the people did not know, they made up for in tavern tales and bard lyrics, and soon the land was swept away with love stories between the prince and the princess.

While those ballads caught on like fire, the princess Alanna was anything but fiery.

It was another dinner banquet.

She was quick to pick out a favorite chair, and the servants were happy to always place it in her designated seating spot—to the right of the black-haired, blue-eyed Prince Jonathan.

It was a plush damask chair with cushions that lined the curve of its back, the legs fine, strong redwood that matched the tone of the grand dining hall. She could dig her nails into the wooden armrests without leaving a trace.

Before her was a banquet, and she looked with apathetic eyes at plates so lavish that they competed with the delicacies that they presented.

Life here was surprisingly similar to life back in Maren. In fact, if she forgot about the hours spent with Jonathan, it was more enjoyable here, without her nurse constantly hawking over her, and the required embroidery hours. Tortall was a strange land, where a hand for embroidery was a prized gift rather than an expected skill.

Even the mandatory hours with Prince Jonathan, when they sat inside one of the many halls of the castle and familiarized themselves, were not half bad.

When Alanna saw him, she was struck by how very handsome he was. His eyes were piercing like the frosted windows of a window's day, with a clarity that would light any darkness. His face was sculpted with clear lines and a slightly hooked nose. The way his nose held the smallest bent, like it had been broken before, reminded Alanna of George a bit, although George's nose was far larger—too large for his face and definitely not handsome. Jonathan was stunning, in a way that George could never compare with.

It must be easy to love such a person, Alanna had thought.

Then came the awkward introduction of future husband and wife.

She thought she behaved admirably, with just the right amount of coyness and aloofness for a proper lady. He, on the other hand, had taken her outstretched hand and kissed it gently, as if he had known her for years and loved her in secret. Alanna was not fooled for a second, and admired him immediately for his understanding of women.

A king must know how the ladies of the court worked, if he wanted peace.

He turned out to be a bit haughty and a bit spoiled, but so was she. Neither of them was haughty and spoiled enough to really make the other suffer, though. They engaged in polite and appropriate small talk, and every meeting turned out to be just peachy.

King Maren did love his daughter very much, and had indeed found a marriage in which she would not throw herself from the highest tower.

_In time_, Alanna let her mind wander, _in time perhaps we could even grow to respect and be fond of one another_.

There was no other choice, was there?

She could not escape her duties as the princess, nor the physical constraints of the palace. Where would she even run to, if she did escape? And what would people _say_ about her Father? When men disobeyed social norms, if he could make a name for himself, then he was a hero, and if not, then a fool; when women tried to play the same hand, success was not an option and she was a fallen woman. So the only thing left for her to do, to make the rest of her years more tolerable, was to learn to grow fond.

A daunting task, but she was a persistent girl.

_A lady_, she reminded herself, _a lady, and a princess above all_.

Dinner went along smoothly. She was introduced to yet another nobleman and his visiting family, the old man laughing with Kong Roald about some joke that made Queen Lianne gently touch her husband's elbow to rein in his booming laughter.

That was her model, the single pursuit of her life from now on: to eventually grow into a queen as good and half as happy as Queen Lianne.

Alanna sighed. Persistence would only get her so far.

"Might I," she quietly and demurely whispered to Jonathan as the dinner drew to a close, "Take a quick ride around Corus this evening, Your Highness?"

"Another ride, milady?" he asked, not prying but merely politely inquiring.

"So much to see, and it is quite different from my home," she played the homesick card, and Jonathan's face softened.

"Please take Coram Smythesson with you, he might appear a little crude, but he is one of our best man-at-arms and one of the more well-known faces around town."

"Of course," she accepted gracefully. To have Coram tailing her was certainly better than having a more meddlesome knight. A flask of the local brew, and he would very willingly take her through the more interesting roads.

So the evening sky saw a short, copper-haired woman wide sidesaddle on a pretty mare, with its white mane groomed to part neatly and its short white hair groomed to shine.

The expression of the woman riding the mare was far from shining, though.

In fact, she seemed almost gloomy—at first glance, she seemed bored; at second glance (for a lady riding through the common plaza indeed warranted a second glance), she would seem unhappy, and yet when one's full attention was bestowed upon her, she would once again seem bored, with a touch of resignation, perhaps.

Suddenly, she shook a little, but recovered, and returned to be the unemotional noble lady on the dainty horse. But her eyes had a glint, something that was new and escaped the untrained eye.

Straight ahead of her, a lusciously curvaceous woman with blazing red hair threw back her head and gave a low, husky laugh. But it was the tall man next to her, whom she talked and laughed freely with, that stunned her.

She could recognize that gait anywhere.

His brown hair was lightened by the sun, and he definitely seen plenty of sun recently, a deeper tan gracing his skin. Life was good to him—his broad shoulders filled out his tunic just as nicely, and not a single muscle had been lost in his arms.

She could not have mistaken him for any other, if only by his laugh alone. How often had she seen this man laugh?

He was enjoying himself. No wonder he was so keen in coming back, Alanna thought bitterly. He has a real woman waiting for him.

She lifted her head a little and said majestically to Coram, "Turn around."

Behind her, a voice called, questioning but enthusiastic, "Alanna!"

Her organs were all twisted, she could feel them inside her stomach. She knew that voice nearly as well as her own name; her thoughts somehow took up his voice inside her head at some point, and it was disconcerting to hear it out loud.

She lifted her chin and straightened her back.

He left her once, so she will leave him now.

—

George watched Alanna's form as she slowly disappeared into the moving crowd.

"Go after her," Ripash told him—her tone was usually seductively husky, but now it was softened with sympathy. "Go and bring her back to you."

He didn't. It was a futile endeavor, and he knew it. The adored princess of Maren, no matter if betrothed to the prince or not, could not mingle with the likes of him, a common thief. He was far too old to be rash about love—he had been very old from a very young age.

"What? A princess? What would you have me do with a princess of all things? We already have our Queen," he told her with a convincing grin.

It was the best—the best for all of them—for him to leave, and let her leave, before this blossomed into something too painful.

Nip it in the bud, as the saying went.

* * *

Author's Note: It's not meant to be this angst-ridden...it sort of just happened. More will happen next chapter!


	6. The Years Gone By

**Chapter 5: **

**The Years Gone By**

_Don't cry, seas and trees and winds,  
Ancient chorus of strident voices  
Chanting ageless, mournful verses  
Like a dirge of mortuary worms…_

* * *

Tortall was a strange country, Alanna pondered on her soft bed, covered with a quilt made with eagle down and wrapped in silk. Even after two years of living here, she was still not quite used to the land's customs. The years were different here. Here, they passed like sand in the hourglass—smooth and without emotion.

Jonathan was not yet back, despite the sun peaking at her through the window with its first, feeble rays of dawn.

He, in all probability, spent the night elsewhere, like many nights before. There was a new lady in court—Dahlia was her name, and her face was a beautiful bloom just like her namesake. She was sultry and exotic and had charmed half of Jonathan's heart out of his chest. Alanna could not tell if she was displeased at that thought because she had warmed up to Jonathan, or if it was from the inherent possessiveness of all women.

Alanna sighed and slowly rose, smoothing the silken sheets where she sat and watched herself in the silver lined mirror, engraved with rubies in shapes of roses. She was wearing her favorite lilac colored gown, lined with blue sapphires and matching silk slippers. It was getting chilly for this time of the year, so she had a chartreuse shawl on her shoulders. How very proper.

She made way to the kitchen, where she had already made friends with the maids and the head chef—it was easy enough, with buttered words and a smile once in a while, and Alanna tried not to think how every action was deliberate these days—and they would undoubtedly be happy to warm up the pans for her. These trips did not escape the watchful eyes and ears of Jonathan, but he gave her a silent allowance for strange quirks where she gave him hers to pursue court ladies. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

But as such, she missed the frantic, bumbling messenger who did not usually trip over so many things. (In his defense, it was quite a message he was to deliver.) So Alanna was found engulfing a minced meat pie in the lower quarters, half the castle on the lookout for her. Alanna was quite sure that she would be reprimanded for her unladylike behavior, but to her surprise nobody made a fuss about it.

It was because the King and the Queen just died.

That effectively put an end to her appetite. Alanna pushed aside the lumps of ground meat with some nausea, and quickly ran to the scene of discovery.

The King and Queen were in their beds, looking peaceful as if they were simply asleep. They were found by the maid who came in to check after the advisor told her to after the ambassador got ticked that the King was not yet up. It was a very convoluted story, but Alanna got the gist that _the_ _King was dead_.

The royal doctor came, and declared a preliminary diagnosis of death by natural causes.

It was more like a lack of unnatural causes, both the royal figure having no wounds and displaying no mark of poison. There was something that bothered Alanna though, a tug at the end of her senses, whispering, ominous, and making her feel very stupid for not knowing exactly what it was.

It took her a while (and the rest of the meat pie), but it hit her.

_Black sorcery_.

In a rustle of dress and a yell, she told her man-at-arms that 'I'm going for a walk!"

Coram, the man-at-arms who was assigned to her (escaping his previous assignment to a miserable knight who much preferred scrolls and books to swords and bows) gave an exasperated splutter before understanding that no, there was nothing he could do to stop Her Highness, and therefore ran after her with grumbling frustration.

There was only one man that Alanna thought of as she dashed through the kitchen door of the palace.

Alanna was glad that she was followed by Coram for the first time, because as it turned out Coram was far more knowledgeable about the shady underground activities in the city than she would have given him credit for. Never mind that his face was suspiciously red when he mentioned the Queen of the Thieves, and never mind that Alanna felt a hot white rage inside her at the very mention. Those things were not important against the grand tragedy and, if her gut was correct, the grand scheming.

Coram led her through a sequence of back alleys and dirt-paved paths, before she found herself in a secluded backyard, face to face with the man who haunted her dreams and nightmares alike.

"George," she said, hoping that her voice did not sound nearly as squeaky to him as it did to her.

"Make it quick, lass," the tall man said, rubbing the bridge of his large nose, "Unlike your court, mine actually demands the King to do his share."

"That's why I came," Alanna cleared her throat, "Would you happen to know any, well, conspiracies against the royal court?"

George lifted an eyebrow, "Ya know lass, we and you coexist peacefully partially because we don't involve ourselves with such dealings."

"I know," Alanna cleared her throat again, very uncomfortable and slightly indignant under his careful condescension, "Which is why I am consulting you of all people."

"There are conspiracies against His Royal Highness every day," and something in his lilting voice made Alanna question the capitalization of 'His Royal Highness'.

"Don't play dumb with me," Alanna snarled, "You know I mean ones to be taken seriously.

Somehow, the ferocity in her made George crack a smile and for a split second Alanna saw his eyes dance with mirth and fondness. The second was soon over, and he responded with a drawl, "Information could cost ya a pretty penny, lass. Don't ask for things that you aren't prepared to pay for."

"Just answer me, dammit! I'll trade you information."

"And what sort of information would I find of any value from a girlie like you?" He was cruelly condescending now, she knew, but she couldn't understand why there was need for cruelty between them.

"That the King and Queen are dead."

His eyes narrowed but he retorted, "I would have known that by this afternoon without you."

Alanna knew that her informant wasn't worth much, but she was no stranger to the art of negotiating with few chips, "True, but you know _now_, and in battle a second is worth more than a bag of gold."

George looked at her with a strange blend of amusement and wonder.

"Not all battles are with swords, though all is bloody enough," Alanna pushed, "Now I've shown my hand, and now it's your turn.

George hummed and pursed his lips in thought. "There has been," he began with hesitation, "Some, ah, growing _concern_ over Roger."

"Duke Roger of Conté?" Alanna asked incredulously. Sure the man gave her a sleazy feeling, but that pertained more to the gel piled in his hair than plotting to _kill_ the King and Queen!

"Aye, word on the street," he glibly offered, "Take it as you will."

She fell silent, and in her mind she tried to make sense of the events. She could come up with nothing; Roger did not have a motive to begin with, since even with the King dead, the throne would fall to—

She gasped suddenly, "Jonathan," she hoarsely whispered out, "Jonathan's next." There was a dangerous glint in George's eyes but Alanna went on in spite of it, "Please, George, you have to help me! If you're right, then Jonathan's in danger!"

"I _have_ to?" he asked her, and it didn't sound so much a question as a threat.

Alanna suddenly remembered how brusque she was with him at their parting two years ago, and how he must have felt when he learned of her marriage to Prince Jonathan. In spite of that, she silently pleaded with her eyes, and degree by degree, she saw George melt under her gaze, as frustrated with himself as that made him. Even Alanna herself couldn't have told how much of that was manipulation, and how much was genuine.

"Alright lass," he finally let out, looking older than he should have, "What d'ya want from me."

* * *

Author's Note: Ahh, sorry this took a while! I had such a writer's block about the plot (still do!), and don't know how to incorporate Roger's dark, evil plot, so as of now it's a vaguely evil thing yet to be explained...suggestions/ideas would be _wonderful_!


	7. Let There Be No Rest

**Chapter 6**

**Let There Be No Rest**

_One day you will finally leave  
The shade of twilight visions, emerging  
Radiant from that dream and those yearnings  
Born of all that makes you grieve._

* * *

Everything was set—from the position of the guards, to the precarious placement of dinner napkins. Nary a thread of hair was out of place as Alanna crept up the sewerage of the Palace.

George was mightily impressed, slinking through the shadows beside Alanna. He had thought that the lady would immediately abandon the mission when she saw—and smelled—the sewers, even if she had been the one to adamantly fight for her role in this ambush. He had to admit though, she was good at this. Beside simply not balking, the lass took up her sword like a natural, and did not make a sound when her boots fell.

It was a serious moment on a life-or-death mission, but all that George could focus on was how her hair was like the reflection of a fiery sun on the canvas of some aspiring artist. George was not a naturally poetic man, and he frowned upon useless frivolities. But in that moment, he understood why some men were poets, and all men were fools.

When she looked at him, nervous and excited, her eyes were as sharp and bright as any shard of amethyst. When he reached out for her hand—under the guise of practicing stealth and ignoring his own beating heart—he found that her hands were small and cold and sweaty, and reminded him of little girls who woke up from nightmares and didn't know what to do.

Ironically, he had never seen somebody who was so sure of what they were meant to do.

Even she knew it, as she controlled her breathing and her heart beat quickly out of the thrill of danger—this, _this_ was what she was born to do. Leave all the planning to Gareth—that was _his_ calling in life, that and getting fat by dining with politicians and foreign ambassadors—but Alanna belonged to the world of clashing steel and quick spells.

George shook his head, and gave Alanna an easy grin to soothe her nerves.

This night was going to be too bloody for idle thoughts.

* * *

Both the stars and the moon were bright, shining softly to the ground and gently caressing the earth. The silvery moonlight and milky starlight streamed through the windows and threw the shadows of two shapes onto the marble floor, almost merging them into one.

By the time the two crossed the ground floor hallway though, Geroge knew something was _wrong_.

The guards slithered away before they could knock them unconscious, and they did not encounter a single obstacle—and that was what was wrong. A plan never carried itself out perfectly, and while Alanna was caught up in the elation of her first live-action adventure, George had been thieving and murdering since the tender age of six. He knew when something was too _smooth_ to be real.

And lo and behold, the moment they stepped inside the royal chamber, instead of finding a sleeping, defenseless Roger, they found the senior advisory board, standing in a line, in robes and grim faces. Jonathan was bowed before them, a face carefully trained to be shamed and not furious.

"What were you _thinking_?" Advisor A berated.

"You _must_ learn to have judgment, Your Majesty," Advisor B said, adding the honorific at the end as an afterthought.

"To think, the Royal Family turning against _itself_, oh the _horror_," Advisor C fainted in a timely fashion.

From where Alanna was standing, she could see Jonathan's fist clenching and unclenching behind his back, as the all these people took Roger's side.

"We _must_ punish Sir Gareth—what an _terrible_ influence he has upon you, Your Majesty!"

"Now, now," Roger spoke with great condescension, "I'm sure His Majesty only wanted to pull a prank—such is the way young boys think."

"Young boys _indeed_. The _nation_ falls upon his shoulders," Advisor A scoffed.

"It is my fault entirely," Gareth admitted falsely. "I had thought—I did not think. I am sorry, to have dragged Your Majesty up."

"It is," Jonathan said through gritted teeth, "An utmost disgrace. I was fortunate to have been woken up to stop this madness."

And so Gareth took the fall, faithfully.

* * *

In the ostentatious palace of Corus, the King of Tortall lay on his velvet bed, fidgeting with a bottle of aged wine in his hands, and half a dozen more of empty ones on the floor. The perks of being a King before one's time, it seemed, lied within the endless bottles of the King's private cellars.

In the state of drunkenness, Jonathan felt no pain, no joy; there was no past, nor future, not even the present, for the mind was void. He thought neither of others, nor of himself, for nobody seemed particularly relevant.

He had failed, more than any King had before him.

That was not an easy thought to bear, and the young Jonathan—for although he was a King, he was still a boy barely into his adulthood—could not shoulder it. Reality was hard to shoulder, at the best and worst of times.

Queen Alanna burst into the room like a whirlwind of fire. She had heard of the maids talking, and invaded King Jonathan's private study chamber in a fit of desperate fury. But the sight before her was so despairing—to see the beautiful young prince reduced to the drunken slobbering mess… But Alanna steeled her heart, and reached out a hand to slap him forcefully.

Jonathan looked up at the impact, as if in his numbed state it was a light caress instead of a full-blown attack. "Why must it all be so hard," he slurred.

"Because it's always harder to live than to die," Alanna snapped.

"Then let me _die_ already, you miserable wench," he snapped back at her.

Alanna only looked at him with sadness, and a frustration that he was not more than he was. "If you cannot do justice to this kingdom, then I will do it _for _you, as the Queen."

She exited the room in the same whirlwind, leaving Jonathan alone with his bottle of Sauvignon. (He always _hated_ Sauvignon.)

In the distance, he could hear a man-at-arms ask his Queen—Corus, Corum? Something like that, his name was—"Guards?" before quickly rectifying his mistake, "No, of course not, since when do our beloved Queen actually take use of guards?"

She was probably going out with that _George_, he thought vehemently. A plebian. A common thief. A man who would never understand the burdens of a King, and therefore be all the happier for it.

Oh but wait, he was the King of Thieves.

Jonathan sighed. He wished he could forget more of reality, and let himself sink into this spiteful, ignorant rage against his fortunes. But reality was there no matter what he thought of it, Jonathan realized in a burst of epiphany.

So he rolled out of bed, flew down the hallways, hastily grabbed his horse from the stables, and rode after Alanna.

* * *

Author's Note: I don't think there _is_ an advisory board to the King, but suspend your beliefs for a moment.

Please review!


	8. Birth of the Lioness

**Chapter 7**

**Birth of the Lioness**

_Souls still in the limbo of existence,  
One day you'll awake, in Consciousness,  
Hovering already as pure thought…  
And never again will you be distraught.  
—_Antero de Quental_, Redemption_

* * *

Alanna walked into the nightfall.

She meandered through the trees, trotting on dried leaves and yellowing grass. All the vigor of summer was gone, chased away by the winds of autumn. The squirrels were storing acorns for their winter, the bears eating more than their share, and the colors of the forest seemed to be leaking away. Perhaps that was why the head gardener kept chrysanthemum in the court flowerbeds, to have glorious golden tendrils unfurling in the autumnal sun—they were the only that bloomed anymore.

And on that day of a hundred blossoming chrysanthemums, Alanna was weaving magic into the thin air, letting it lead her through the foliage towards a man who embodied all the evil in the world right now.

Scattered leaves swayed in the slight breeze, whispering to each other in words that only trees could understand. The sun, only a speck of orange on the dark horizon, lowered itself jerkily, as if it moved along checked lines.

She must stop seeing morbid signs everywhere, Alanna knew, but it was hard to keep her head straight, when she was traveling alone through trees that looked like upright coffins.

_Snap_. A twig broke, but not from her.

Alanna stopped immediately, her hands going to her sword, gripping the handle tightly as a man stepped into her sight.

"Lass," he said, his tone brisk but his eyes warm, and Alanna felt her heart unwind and her eyes water up. It was _George_. "Let's get to this nasty business."

The implicit promise in his words—the promise of fighting together, dying together if that was what it took—gave Alanna strength, and she nodded firmly and decisively. Her hands pooled more magic, each wisp weaving a web to track Roger, and they stepped forward steadily.

The sky darkened with clouds, and soon night was upon the land. The moon disappeared behind black boughs, leaving only a few stars to fend on their own. A stray breeze wandered into the forest, but it only stirred a few dry leaves, not leaving a single blade of grass overturned in its wake.

They spoke no words, for sound was a warning for their foe. George watched in mixed admiration and apprehension as Alanna made forth, her shoulders hunched, her steps silent, her head thrown back like a lioness on the prowl. In her tense pose, George could almost foresee the future, where she would leap and with a roar unleash her entire weight on her prey, crumpling the lesser foe with not her physical weight, but the extraordinary impact of her attack.

She was becoming wild, he could tell, even though nobody had trained her to hunt.

But the future rarely happened as one anticipated it, so George was surprised when Alanna abruptly stopped, crouching behind a cluster of trees and holding her hand up to stop him as well. He followed her, and immediately he could hear the sound of boots following upon thick foliage in front of them, the sight obscured by the trees but the sound stinging his ears.

This was going to be it, they both thought, looking at each other. The intensity of the moment of became a testimony of love to them, as the idea of life and death often bred fierce emotions.

George let his hand graze Alanna's cheek before he pulled back, allowing her the right of way.

She gazed at him sweetly, her eyes caressing him, before turning back and pouncing upon her prey.

They attacked Roger, with swords and with magic. George would have liked to say that it was a glorious battle, but the truth was that it was over quicker than he would have liked. George successful drove one of his daggers into Roger's leg, but Roger struck his weakness when he took the dagger with a grunt and overwhelmed Alanna's sword with a magical shield. Surprised and untrained for real combat, Alanna faltered for a second, and the second was enough as Roger solidified his magic into a sword and pierced the air, aiming at Alanna's heart.

The moment was like a flash of lightning, blinding and surreal, as George flung himself between Alanna and Roger.

Alanna's eyes widened in horror as she saw the invisible blade drip with blood and her George collapsed onto the ground. In that split second, success and failure, life and death, became as remote and insignificant as a speck of dust. Their entire lives seemed to have existed only for this moment.

"He won't survive the wound," Roger spat through his teeth gleefully at the expression on Alanna's face, "The sword was driven to the heart—fatal!"

Alanna knew that to be false—she was an apt healer enough to deal with the wounds superficially, until they could get him to a proper Healer, but that required them to leave as soon as possible. So they must defeat Roger as soon as possible then, it was simple.

Roger's smugness would be his downfall it seemed, as Alanna lowered her head, pretending to be paralyzed by this turn of event, as George whispered to her, "Lass, you know what you should do."

Alanna did. She drew up, courage and strength coursing through her blood and singing, and took her sword once again.

Roger laughed in her face: "What can a little girl do to me?"

What indeed, as she forgot all her hesitation and charged with a furious efficiency. It seemed that although she was groomed to be a lady, her years of slashing at innocent shrubbery had given her speed in movement if not trained stances. And in such a fight, speed of hand—speed of mind—was of utmost importance.

Taken back, Roger parried.

The entire kingdom of Tortall seemed to still its breath, every leave and every grass stopping its breath, not to witness this great finale but rather to fight it for them. There could be no other explanation for how she won in such dire and disadvantages circumstances—but win she did.

Roger was flattened against the ground, his magic spent, and Alanna's sword at his throat when Jonathan appeared.

Jonathan, who had followed Alanna, rushed to them with a sober man's clarity in his eyes, something that Alanna had not seen in weeks.

They exchanged a look, and in that look they understood each other far better than all their previous year's talk and dancing. Alanna stepped back, the sharpened point of her sword never leaving the soft pulsing vein on Roger's neck, but allowing her prince—her King to come forth.

This was not her battle, she knew—indeed, this was not even Jonathan's battle, but Jonathan was the representative of the entire Kingdom's thundering wrath. Jonathan roared, with a might that only kings of the olden days had known, and ran to his cousin Roger, sword unsheathed, and drove his weapon into the man.

Roger died, bleeding out like a common man, despite all his claims to greatness and power. The three of them watched him take his last breath, and as people who dirtied their hand for the idea of the Kingdom, prayed for forgiveness.

As the light of life faded, Alanna rushed to George and heaped her best healing spells on him, curing him of the dire bleeding.

"My King," she said gravely, for only gravity was appropriate in this moment, "I must go."

She did not simply mean for the moment, nor only for the sake of the wounded George—and for once Jonathan understood her completely.

"Of course," Jonathan replied, his voice equal in somberness. "But first," he said, pulling his sword out of the corpse of Roger, "Allow me."

Alanna stilled as Jonathan drew closer.

"I give to thee, my knight," Jonathan said reverently, placing his bloodied sword carefully on her bloodied shoulder, "My greatest gift."

She was overcome with some great emotion—it was either awe or fear, but she didn't know, and instead let it wash over her, making her tremble in a way that she did not in battle.

"My greatest gift," Jonathan repeated, "Of freedom. Run, my lioness, run wherever your sword takes you."

As she left, hand clutching George's tightly, she turned around to see her Prince, her King, again.

He was standing in the morning light, the pale whiteness pooling around his feet like angels feathers, making a throne out of the forest ground, and a palace out of this wilderness.

Jonathan had never looked taller, and she had never loved him more than in that moment.

* * *

Author's Note: And the end. Epilogue coming up!


End file.
